


First Dates Suck

by Whatsastory



Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [10]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Ian is a jealous boy, M/M, mickey just wants a dick and some beer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23679823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory
Summary: "Look, man. I definitely don't wanna spend the night talking about that asshole," Mickey says as he fiddles with the edge of the table cloth. "Maybe we could ask for another waiter..."
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668712
Comments: 29
Kudos: 258





	First Dates Suck

Mickey puts in a real effort. A true blue, honest to god effort. It's his first date in a good long while, and he's really hoping to seal it with a good long fuck, for which it's also been a substantial amount of time, and he's starting to get bitchy. 

He showers thoroughly. Washes everything twice. Scrubs under his nails. Brushes his teeth for three cycles of the 'New Girl,' theme song (thanks, Mandy), gargles mouthwash until it stings his tonsils and flosses til his gums bleed. He gels his hair expertly, having grown accustomed to it in the last few years. Fuck knows why, it's not like he... he actually cares or some shit. Fuck that. 

He dresses in a stormy blue button down and tucks it into dark grey jeans rolled at the cuff to show off his black boots. He looks sharp, he can admit that much. Maybe he'll even look like he somewhat belongs in this swanky ass restaurant he's getting toted off to. He thinks the guy might be trying to hard, but ay, free food is free fucking food. 

He's meeting the guy there, and it's probably better that way. Douche bag doesn't need to know where he lives if this shit goes south. Normally he'd hop the train rather than drive his car, but again, he might need to make a quick exit, so, vehicle it is. 

It's even nicer than he'd originally thought, he realizes, when he pulls up and a valet comes to his car. Any other man might be a little embarrassed by handing over the keys to his 2011 Toyota Camry in a place like this, but it’s Mickey. The hives creeping up his arms and neck are not embarrassment. It's the heat. 

It's some Italian place, which, okay, isn't really the best food to have settled in your belly if you're looking to get laid. But fuck, he didn't pick the place. 

It's all modern looking stone on the outside of the building with lights set into the sparse little flora to illuminate the pathway to the heavy, thick wooden door. He looks around in the small area where the hostess is perched behind her little podium, and god knows how all of these fucking people can cram themselves in this tiny ass space. 

"Mickey! Hey!" His date calls to catch his attention, pushing himself away from the wall that he'd been leaning against. He looks good, too, with his form fitting black sweater and grey slacks that hug him just right. It's a good form. He's tall and muscular, and it doesn't hurt that he's got hazel eyes and a crop of red hair to top it off. 

"Yeah, hey," Mickey says back and drags his thumbnail across his top lip. It's not nerves. 

"Our table's ready. It's over this way," he says and gestures toward the right. 

Mickey follows him through a throng of other tables, and is relieved to find that they're seated near the corner. The table has on it a wine colored table cloth with black cloth napkins. The silverware is immaculately polished, shiny and clean. And in the center sits two little flickering flames of a candle. Music plays softly around the room, some low thrum of jazz music that's very unlike the death metal that Mickey usually chooses to listen to. 

It's all very... gay. And if this were the Mickey of the past, the wall would probably already have a Mickey sized hole in it. But as it is, he's matured, and while this isn't really his scene (he'd have preferred it if they'd gone for a couple of steaks and beers), he can appreciate the effort that his date has put in. 

"What do you think, Mickey? Should we be a little bad and get a bottle of wine to share?" Hazel eyes asks and leans on his palm with a little smirk plastered across his lips. 

"Sure, man. Why the fuck not?" Mickey says back and tries to keep his smile natural and fresh rather than his usual sneer. "Know fuck all about wine, though." 

"Ah, that's no problem. What kind of tastes do you like? Sweet? Tart?" 

Mickey grins and leans forward, putting on his best lusty face, "I definitely like em' sweet," he says and then winks. Because Jesus, he's really fucking horny. 

"Oh, I bet you do," he gets in response, along with a bright white smile that kind of makes Mickey's dick really fucking excited. 

"Good evening, gentlemen," Mickey hears from behind him, and he grumbles with irritation. "My name is Ian, and I'll be your- Mickey?" 

Mickey's eyes snap up so fast that it's a wonder they don't roll out of his head, and his mouth goes slack at the sight before him. 

If there is a god, there's one thing that's for certain; he goddamn hates Mickey Milkovich. 

Ian stands before him, poised and regal. He wears what all of the other servers wear; form fitted black slacks, a white button up and a black tie. He's in uniform, but of course he stands out. He looks, shit, he looks fucking amazing with his perfectly coiffed hair and sharp as shit jaw. 

And here Mickey was thinking that his own red headed date was looking good, but in comparison, he's garbage. He's the Walmart version of Ian fucking Gallagher, and now that the thought is in his head, it's gonna fucking stay there.

"Gallagher," he growls out and shuffles in his seat. 

"What are you doing here?" Ian asks in all of his puppy like glory. 

"Kind of on a date, man," Mickey tells him and gestures across the table. 

"You two know each other?" James pops in, and Ian's eyes skate across his features. 

"Oh, you're on a date, huh?" All of the sweet puppy is gone and it's replaced with a sort of seething humor. "With him? Can't say you don't have a type, can we?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mickey mutters out petulantly. 

"I'm sorry," James butts in again. "But how do you two..." he asks and waves his hand between the two of them. 

"We used to-"

"He used to date my sister," Mickey blurts, even as he feels heat creep into his cheeks. 

"Oh! Small world, huh? Well look, Ian, Mickey and I were just talking about getting some wine. I'm thinking a Cabernet Sauvignon, since Mickey likes it sweet- you'll like it, Mick. 'S really good," he beams at Mickey, and Mickey smiles back. 

"Yeah, we'll have the Caber- what he said. Thanks, Gallagher," Mickey says, but he very pointedly does not look away from James. 

"Bottle or gla-" Ian starts, but Mickey cuts him off. 

"Definitely a bottle," and then, when Ian doesn't make a move to go, "What, you want me to write it down for you or some shit?" 

"You were a little rough with him," James mentions once Ian's spun on his heel and walked away. 

"Dude's a dick."

"How long ago did he date your sister?" 

"Look, man. I definitely don't wanna spend the night talking about that asshole," Mickey says as he fiddles with the edge of the table cloth. "Maybe we could ask for another waiter..."

Ian's back before Mickey actually can ask for someone else, spouting off the specials by heart. Mickey can feel him looking at him the entire time he speaks, going on and on about dishes that Mickey doesn't fucking understand. 

"But Mickey's going to want spaghetti and meatballs, huh, Mick?" Ian's got that look, that proud little smirk that he gets whenever he thinks he knows some shit that he doesn't. Because he's fucking stupid. Even if he had originally wanted the spaghetti and meatballs, that's none of Ian's business. 

"Nope. Want lasagna," he says, just to be defiant. 

"No you don't," Ian says, smirk growing wider. 

"You wanna tell me when I need to take a piss, too, fuck face? I said I want fucking lasagna. So, write it down in your little fucking book there and move the fuck on." Mickey mimes writing as he says it, feeling proud that he's got such a firm handle on things. He's going to make Ian look like an idiot and he's going to feel better for it. 

"Okay. But it's got mushrooms in it," Ian shrugs, nonchalant, and slowly brings his pen to the paper. 

"Good. Great. I love mushrooms," Mickey says, even as his stomach turns at the thought. Who the fuck puts mushrooms in lasagna? 

"Yeah, okay, Mickey," Ian scoffs and turns his attention to James. "And for you?" 

James looks between the two of them, mouth slightly ajar, confused and really weirded out, by the looks of it. 

"Uh, pasta primavera, please," he says to Ian. And then, "I'm not a meat eater. It's always my go-to when I eat Italian," to Mickey with a shy smile. 

"Oh, so you're a vegetarian?" Ian sing songs, sarcastic smile still on his face. "That's gonna be hard if you two keep dating. Mickey absolutely loves meat, don't you, Mick?" 

"Could go without it," Mickey shrugs and fills up his glass with the cabinet ceviche or whatever the fuck it is. 

"You're telling me you don't just crave a hot, thick cut of meat? So good the juices run down your chin?" 

"Nope," Mickey says and takes a gulp of his wine. "In fact, I'll have what he's having. Maybe I'll swear off meat, too. Y'know, we have to make sacrifices for our partners. Can't all be selfish fucking pricks, can we?" He asks and very pointedly looks Ian in the eyes as he says it. 

Ian, for his part, clenches his jaw and sets his eyes hard, crossing out Mickey's order of lasagna, and making a note to add extra mushrooms to his meal. 

"That's very brave of you, Mick. Good thing, too, wouldn't want anyone to call you a pussy, now would we?" 

Mickey chuckles darkly and takes another sip of his wine as he watches Ian start to walk away. Fuck, has he mentioned how much he wants a god damned beer? 

"Ay, Gallagher!" 

Ian turns around with a raised brow. 

"Don't fucking call me 'Mick.'" 

He doesn't watch Ian stomp away, instead he turns his attention back to his date who decidedly looks very uncomfortable with the whole situation. 

"Sorry about that," Mickey says with his sweetest voice. "I told you, that guy is a real asshole." 

They pass the time talking about mundane things; their work, the bar they'd met at, what their plans are for the weekend. And maybe Mickey lays it on a little thick. Laughs a little louder when Ian is in the vicinity. Grabs James' hand when Ian drops off a basket of fancy breads. James seems to eat it up, and Mickey takes that as a sign that maybe his night won't be for naught. 

"Parmesan?" Ian asks as he sets Mickey's plate down in front of him. "You won't like it." 

"Don't tell me what I will and won't like. You don't know me..."

"Parmesan?" He asks James instead of answering Mickey. James nods with a smile, and Ian cranks the cheese. "Tell me when." But he doesn't wait for when, he just slops the plate down heavily, makes a grunting noise when a few of the veggies fall from the plate and onto James' lap. 

"Ay, watch what the fuck you're doing!" Mickey chastises and leans across the table to dab at James' pants. 

"Oh, that's rich, Mick. Look how caring you are!" Ian flails as he says it, wild and uncaring if he gets a few stares. 

"It's okay, really-" James tries. 

"Shut up!" Mickey and Ian say in unison. 

"Will you get the fuck out of here? You're fucking ruining my date," Mickey grunts as he sits back down into his chair. 

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I? I didn't even think you, 'did,' dates. Excuse the fuck out of me!" Ian says and pounds his feet against the ground like a petulant child as he leaves. 

James takes a bite of his food, quiet and nervous, and Mickey really does feel bad for the guy. 

"How's your food?" He asks, as he takes a bite of his own. He's a big boy, he can hide the grimace at the taste. 

"It's okay..." 

"Look, obviously me and Ian got beef. Don't let him ruin what you and I got going on here, okay? He's an asshole, but I like you. And I want this to be good." 

He reaches across the table and waits for James to let a shy smile slip through before he places his hand in Mickey's. 

"I like you, too, Mick. Kind of wish I would have picked a different place, though." 

Mickey snorts a laugh. "You and me both." 

The noodles of his dish aren't so bad once he eats around the vegetables and the absolutely absurd amount of mushrooms. The wine washes it down   
good enough, and toward the end of his meal he feels warm and a little floaty from it. It's nothing compared to an ice cold beer, but the buzz is different, and he doesn't at all mind it. 

"How was your meal?" Ian asks tersely, interrupting them yet again. 

"Good," James beams, and Mickey smiles, too. 

"Fucking perfect," he says, still looking at James.

"You fucking kidding me?" Ian barks, and startles James. But not Mickey. Mickey is used to Ian's dramatic little outbursts. 

"No, we're not. Now can you give us our check so we can get out of here? Hey, by the way, James you think you wanna finish this night off the right way?" 

"I-" James start, but is once again cut off by Ian. 

"You're gonna fuck this freckled twink?" 

Mickey stares at him with a stone face. If it isn't the freckled twink calling the freckled twink a freckled twink. 

"I dunno, Ian. I sure was hoping to!" 

"Please, you and I both know you'd be thinking about me the whole time. He's obviously just a sad attempt at a replacement!" 

"What the fuck makes you say that?" 

"Oh, please. Fucking look at him. He looks like me if my mom and dad were brother and sister," Ian snarks and Mickey husks a laugh. 

"Oh, right. Cause my whole life revolves around you. And fuck you, the dude is fucking hot and I'm gonna fuck the shit out of him!" 

"Good luck with that. He could never fuck you like I do. You'll have to fucking finish yourself with your fist. And you'll think of me when you do that, too." 

Mickey grits his teeth and groans. Flexes his fist and contemplated breaking Ian's jaw. He could probably take this shiny little knife and stab him real quick. Might be able to get out of there before the cops come if he really hauls ass. 

"I swear to god, Ian, I'm gonna beat the fuck out of you if you don't get the fuck out of my face."

“Is everything alright, Ian?” A man asks, arms folded across his chest with authority. His eyebrows are raised high on his forehead, eyes wide with curiosity and irritation. And it serves Ian right. 

“Yeah, Gary. Everything is fine.”

“Doesn’t look fine. You should go back to the kitchen and box up what’s left of these meals. Throw in a couple of desserts,” he says with no room for discussion. 

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, for your trouble,” he addresses Mickey. “Please, if you’ll just give us one minute, I’ll make sure your meal is free.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. “Fucking better be.” 

Mickey turns back to James, fully intent on gloating over his win, but when he does, James is no where to be found. Fucking Christ almighty. And why would he have stuck around? Mickey can’t blame him, Ian fucking ruined it. Like he ruins everything. Always. Because he’s a stubborn prick, and he’s arrogant, and he thinks the sun shines out of his ass. Has a great ass. Or, fuck wait. No. He’s a dick, plain and simple, speaking of dick, his is really good. Shit. No. Fuck Ian. Yes, please fuck Ian. God, Mickey wants to pull his hair out. 

He’s just about to leave, because fuck all of this for a free fucking dessert, when Ian comes back with a paper bag packed to the gills with take away. 

“Where’s your date?” He asks, though now his voice is severely lacking the heat it held only moments ago. 

“Looks like you ran him off, fuck head.” 

“Shit. I’m sorry, Mickey,” he says, and hands over his bag of food and sits at Mickey’s table like he has any right to. 

“Yeah. You sure seem like it.” 

“I dunno what came over me. I just... I saw you with him and it made me realize... I don’t know. I got jealous.” 

Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. Ian’s looking all sad and he’s got those god damn puppy eyes back. 

“You gonna lose your job?” And why the fuck does he even care? He doesn’t. 

“Nah. Fiona’s fucking the owner,” he says with a grin. “You gonna go get your guy?” 

“Don’t think he’s gonna wanna get got,” Mickey sighs. 

“Just as well. He really was a poor excuse for an Ian look alike,” Ian says with a little fucking giggle. For some reason, the sound makes Mickey smile. 

“Yeah. He fucking was, wasn’t he?” He says, and the two of them laugh a little harder. “Fuck was I thinking?” 

“Probably that you miss me,” Ian shrugs as his laughter dies back down. 

“Probably fucking so.” 

It slipped. It really did. He had no intention of saying that. Doesn’t even know why he did. Didn’t even realize he was thinking it. 

“I should...” Mickey says, red faced, and gestures to the door. 

“Yeah, okay. Sure. You probably have shit to do,” Ian agrees mournfully. 

“Well, for one, I’ve got a fuck load of food to eat,” Mickey chuckles. 

“Oh. About that. Don’t uh, don’t eat the rest of his... I... may have spit in it, a little bit,” Ian tells him, and this time he actually does look contrite. 

Mickey full on fucking cackles, loud and fucking boisterous, head back and clutches at his ribs. 

“Man, you fucking would. You’re a god damned dick.” 

“Yeah. That we can agree on.” 

“Alright. I’m gonna go. See you on my next fucking date, asshole,” Mickey says, still grinning and gets up to leave. 

“Mickey?”

Mickey spins around, and is momentarily struck dumb at the sight. Ian’s leaned on the table, the flickering light from the candle catching his features in the best way as he chews on his bottom lip. 

“Yeah?” Mickey husks back, trying his best to keep his cool. 

“I’m not sorry...That I ran him off.” 

“I know you’re not,” Mickey says and turns around to leave again. “My number never fucking changed, you know. And I really was planning on getting laid tonight,” he tosses over his shoulder, but doesn’t wait for an answer before he weaves his way to the exit. 

Maybe it was a mistake, saying that, but Mickey’s always been a little stupid for that stupid fuck. Ian does something to his brain to make it short circuit time and time again, but he guesses he must do the exact same thing to Ian, if tonight was any fucking indication. 

He decides that they can be stupid together when Ian texts him later that night to tell him that his shift has ended. 

And Ian, blessedly, brings the beer that Mickey had been craving all along.


End file.
